


The Watchers

by TiyeTiye



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Norse Religion & Lore, ArchAngel Michael - Freeform, Archangels, Celtic Goddess, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Christian Character, Conquest, Dark Ages, Dublin - Freeform, Goddess Brigid, Invasion, Ireland, Multi, Occupied City, Other, References to Norse Religion & Lore, The Viking Who Would Be King, Viking Age, Viking Invasion, ancient Ireland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2018-03-15
Packaged: 2018-12-07 07:49:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11619162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TiyeTiye/pseuds/TiyeTiye
Summary: Ivar the Boneless begins his conquest of Ireland and the gods themselves take notice.





	1. Chapter 1

Standing at the border of heaven, under the boughs of a holly tree, Heimdall waits and watches. He waits for Ragnarok, hand on the Gjallarhorn, ready to warn the Aesir of the great battle to come, of the deaths of the All-Father, the Thunderer, and many others, of the destruction and remaking of the world. He has been waiting for countless years, and will keep waiting for countless more, until the Wolf and the Serpent break free. 

For now however, he casts his unblinking eyes out over the crackling energy of the Bifrost bridge, and watches the world. As he gazes upon it, he notices a tiny cluster of dots detach itself from the shores of an island in the northern sea and begin to move west. His eyes follow them, and soon the dots turn towards a small green island that rises up out of the waves like an emerald lost in the rain. 

–––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––– 

Moncha stood on the shore of Dublin Bay, clutched her spear, and waited. Slowly, ever so slowly, she slid one foot forward through the water, and then the other, eyes on her target. Raising her spear high overhead, she brought it down with a shout, and when she heaved it back up there was a large crab stuck on its end. 

“Ha Ha!” she laughed. “Hey Siobhan! Look what I caught now!” Moncha turned back towards the shore to show her but her 5 year old sister was nowhere to be seen. 

“Siobhan?” she called again. Still no answer. Moncha waded back to shore and deposited the crab in her fishing basket along with the rest of the day’s catch. Siobhan’s tiny doll was still there, so the little girl couldn't have gone far. Moncha trudged up a small rise and turned to scan the shoreline in both directions, but there was no sign of her sister’s white-blond hair. 

“Siobhan, don’t make me come looking for you again! You remember what Mother said after the last time!” Her only answer was the hum of the summer wind and the cries of the seabirds. 

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” Moncha sighed to herself and began picking her way back towards the pile of her and Siobhan’s belongings, not relishing the thought of having to carry everything by herself as she searched. 

_Silly girl,_ she thought to herself as she went, _old enough to come fishing, but too young to actually_ _stay fishing_ . _Well, what now?_ _Do I start looking back towards home, or further out on the headland? Usually when she gets hungry she heads towards home, but not always, and we've come awfully far today….._

Moncha gave the sand near their baskets one last frustrated _stab_ with the butt of her fishing spear, threw back her head and shouted “Siobhaaaannnn!” and this time, finally there came a faint answer. 

“Mooonchaaaaa!” came her name on the wind. “Mooonchaaa!”

Moncha shaded here eyes, and there she was, coming from the opposite direction she had been planning on searching. Her hands were full of what looked like early berries, and she appeared to have an _entirely too pleased with herself_ grin on her face. 

“Siobhan! Get back over here _now_!” Moncha yelled. “What did Mother and Father tell you about wandering off!?”

“But lookit!” Siobhan shouted as an excuse, holding out one hand full of berries and using the other berry-stained fist to gesture at a spot vaguely back inland. 

“No buts! No wandering off means _no wandering off_!” Moncha leaned against her fishing spear and waited as the little girl picked her way back along the beach towards her big sister. 

_Ought to give her a swat or two to make the lesson stick,_ she thought to herself, knowing full well that she never would. Tilting her head back to feel the sun on her face, she let herself smile a little. It had turned out to be a glorious spring day, with a clear sky, and a gentle breeze off the water. Even with her legs wet from the knees down, she finally felt _warm again,_ after the cold and darkness of the long winter. Her mother had promised to make a stew out of their catch and Moncha was already looking forward to dinner. 

Still smiling, Moncha opened her eyes to check on Siobhan’s progress, and caught a glimpse of something dark out on the water near the headland. 

_Ha_ , she thought for a second, _I’ll tell her I saw a selkie and she didn’t_ , _maybe that’ll teach her to wander off…_

Moncha’s eyes shot wide and her smile disappeared as the dark speck grew bigger, and she was off and running towards her sister before her mind had fully registered what it was, her fishing spear thumping to the sand, forgotten. 

_Oh_ _Saint Michael, help me…_

The dark speck grew long and sleek as it rounded the headland, not a selkie, but a serpent. Siobhan froze at the sight of her sister careening down the shore towards her shouting her name.

“Siobhan, come here! Come on! Hurry! We’ve got to go!”

By the time Moncha had snatched her and gotten Siobhan to awkwardly cling to her back, more serpents had already appeared out of the waters near the headland. Shifting her sister around on her back, Moncha turned for home as fast as she could. 

_Have to warn them, have to warn them, Mother and Father, everybody, have to warn them…._

She had heard the tales of the Northmen, they all had, from those that had escaped and fled. Men who now woke screaming in the night and women who could never quite erase the panic from their eyes. Wessex - fallen. East Anglia - under siege. Northumbria - nearly overrun, it’s king murdered in a horrific sacrifice to the Northmen’s gods. 

Breath already catching as she sprinted through the sand and finally made it onto the firm path towards Dublin, Moncha let herself despair for just a moment. They were _miles from home._ Why in God’s name had them come out so far!? Turning for one final glance behind them as she ran, Moncha saw that the fleet had now fully entered the bay and was making for the mouth of the river and Dublin itself. 

They weren’t going to make it in time. The Northmen were going to fall upon Dublin with no warning. Moncha gripped her little sister tighter to herself, ignored the burning in her lungs, and kept running anyway. 

_Have to warn them, have to warn them, oh Saint Michael help me, help_ _them_ _, have to warn them…._

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Heimdall watches as the girls speed along the path back towards Dublin, a speck of black carrying a speck of almost white. A bright sound comes from behind him, something like the clear strike of a bell, and a man steps up and begins to follow the girls’ progress with him. He wears a long sword at his hip, and from his back come wings made of cold fire. Heimdall turns to the newcomer and politely inclines his head. 

“Michael.” The newcomer returns the gesture.

“Cousin.”

“You were called upon.”

“I know.”

“And yet you are here.”

“Yes.”

“You will not help the girl?"

“I already have. The girl will not be there when the attack on her home occurs. As for anything else…it is not yet time.” 

The two men turn away from each other and look back to the world. Below them, the first of the ships have reached the mouth of the river, and men built of iron and blood are beginning to swarm over the sides. Miles away, the black speck stops, puts down its burden, and now the girls are running side by side, just as the first curls of smoke begin to rise into the sky. 

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

It was gone. Everyone, all of it was gone. Moncha, carrying Siobhan again, stumbled in to town to nothing but smoke and the sound of distant screams. Fire had ravaged this street, leaving broken beams and half collapsed houses looming eerily out of the smoke as the wind tried to blow it away. Gasping for air as quietly as she could, Moncha darted from alley to alley, looking for someone, _anyone_ , that she knew, who could tell her what to do, where to go, where it was safe. 

A crashing sound came from ahead of her and Moncha threw herself and Siobhan behind the remains of a fence as two Northmen emerged from the remains of a doorway. One of them carried a small chest under one arm and a large bottle in the other, the other was dragging a weeping, struggling woman by the hair, and each had faces so tattooed they looked to be princes of hell. Moncha clapped a hand over Siobhan’s eyes and another over her mouth to stop her from crying out at the sight as the Northmen dragged their captive away up the road. The little girl felt like she was barely holding back frightened sobs. 

_That was Etain, Mother’s friend_ she thought. _That could have been me._

Moncha stayed frozen, staring at the spot where the group had disappeared, breathing like a frightened deer, until Siobhan’s struggles brought her back to her body. Gently, Moncha removed her hands from her sister’s face and turned down to look at her.

“Hey, I’m sorry little sister,” she said softly, combing Siobhan’s hair back with her fingers doing her best to wipe some of the berry juice off her face. “I just didn't want the bad men to frighten you, but they’re gone now, so we’re okay. We’re okay now.” Siobhan didn't look like she entirely believed her, screwing her eyes up against the sting of the smoke s she looked into her eyes. 

“Where are Mother and Father?” 

“Shhhh now. I- I- I’m not really sure about that, but do you want to go and find them?” The little girl nodded. 

“Okay then, let’s get you back up.” Siobhan clambered back up onto her sister’s back and curled her sticky fingers tightly into her hair and for once Moncha didn't mind. 

“We are going to go and find Mother and Father, but do you want to play a game while we do it? Would that be fun?” Moncha craned her neck around to look at her and Siobhan gave an almost imperceptible nod of the head. “Okay then, we are going to play hide and seek while we go and find Mother and Father,” she whispered to her.“Now, the Northmen are going to be it, so we will have to be very careful and quiet while we play, alright? So that they don’t find us. No matter what we might see, okay? Now, Mother and Father will probably be hiding too, so we get to be hiders and seekers at the same time. So we’ll have to be very, very quiet, and not get caught. Understand?” Another nod of the head. “Good.” 

Moncha stood up again with Siobhan gripped tight to her back, and crept off down the road. 

They made it for perhaps twenty minutes before they were caught. Maybe twenty-five. Twice they had to hide again from small groups of Northmen- one group came out of another fire-scarred house and a second, larger party came out of a church. Moncha watched from around a corner as one of them, a skinny old man with knobby knees, lifted the gilded cross above his head, shouted something with what sounded like glee, and hurled it to the ground. The rest of the group laughed.

_Heathen BASTARDS…_

Their luck ran out near what used to be a large stables, in a part of town somewhat untouched by the fire. One building would be completely collapsed, with just a hearthstone and chimney left, and the next would be almost untouched. Moncha had turned a corner too quickly, without checking ahead first, and froze. There were three Northmen standing in the middle of the road, perhaps thirty feet away, looking at her as though she had just popped out of the earth like one of the sidhe. Two men with long dark hair, holding shields and swords, and a third man, seated in a strange chariot and wielding an axe. The smoke had mostly cleared in this part of town thanks to the spring wind, and they saw her, they definitely saw her.

She made but the briefest of eye contact with the man in the chariot, the look he gave her making her feel like being tossed in the wind before a thunderstorm, and then she remembered herself and was gone. Clutching Siobhan tightly to her, she heard one of the Northmen shout something in their language, and then they were after her like a pack of wolfhounds. 

Normally, Moncha would have been able to lose them. This was her home, she knew every twist and turn of its roads, every shortcut and dead end, but with the exhaustion from her run from the shore, the added weight of Siobhan on her back, and the smoke in her lungs, she heard their shouts gaining on her and the rumble of the chariot’s wheels as made the turn to join the pursuit. She wasn’t going to make it. 

Darting around the corner of the stable with seconds to spare, she sank to her knees and practically threw Siobhan towards its open door with a whispered command of “Hide! Don’t come out unless I come get you! No matter what you hear!” The pale child disappeared inside as Moncha darted across the road to a partially collapsed house. She pulled a length of sturdy looking wood from its woodpile and took up what she hoped look like a defensive position by its door. 

_Look at me over here,_ she prayed, heart trying to smash its way out of her chest. _Look at me over here, not over there at the stables, look at me over here please please please please please._

She did not have to wait long. The Northmen’s footsteps were rapidly approaching and as the first one rounded the corner, she swung her stick of wood towards his head with all of her might. 

He blocked it. Easily. Her flimsy weapon broke in two and her hands scrambled for another. The Northman followed her with his shield up now, giving her a look that said he was somewhat offended at having to put up the effort. The second Northman had turned the corner now and came to stand by the first, shield up and sword extended, fully blocking her in before the doorway of the old house. He gave an almost playful jab at her with his sword, and Moncha choked out a scream and batted it away. He did it again, said something to his partner, and laughed. 

By this time, the chariot rider had made it to them. He pulled up his horse as the first two men began closing in, swords up, and shouted something that made them stop. He looked at her, guarding the pitiful remains of the house, its burned out roof open to the sky, then look at the nearly untouched stables across the street. He looked back at her, directly into her eyes, and slowly smiled. He said something again to his companions, and pointed behind him at the door to the stables. 

_He knows. God help us, he knows._

The second Northman, the one who had made a game of trying to cut her with his sword, turned away to begin searching where the chariot driver had pointed. 

“NO!” Moncha shouted, still kept back by the other Northman. “RUN SIOBHAN! RUN! NOW!”

The Northman had made it to the stables door, and Moncha heard her sister’s scream. She made one last desperate swing at her captor’s head before darting forward to do whatever she could to stop the Northman from hurting Siobhan. She managed to slip past him and darted towards the sound. She saw the chariot rider’s eyes widen in surprise before the hit came from behind, smashing into her temple, and causing the world to go dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

 

From his vantage point far above the veil of the sky, Michael watches the dark-haired young woman crumple to the ground and a Northman emerge from a ruined building holding a furiously struggling young child. Heimdall stands impassively by his side and watches with him. Michael tilts his head to the side and studies the strange, broken Viking riding in a chariot. 

“The broken one, the youngest. He is their leader?”

“He is.”

“He is… interesting.”

“Yes he is.” Heimdall agrees. 

Michael turns to look at him. “Show him to me?” he asks.

And Heimdall, the Farseeing, nods his head, places a hand on Michael’s shoulder, and shows him.

_____________________________________________________________________________

As his ship rounded the headland and sailed into the waters of Dublin Bay, Ivar Ragnarsson gripped the wooden rail even tighter, until splinters began to bite into his palm, and swallowed hard. He was the leader of the greatest army his people had ever assembled, which had already conquered half of England in the name of his dead father, and he was _not_ going to throw up over the side. Again. 

An excited whoop came from the bow of the ship and Hvitserk pointed out across the waves from his perch near the serpents head. It had been half a day since they had first sighted this new island to the west, and now here was the wide bay they had been looking for, and there off in the distance Ivar could just barely make out the church steeple of Dublin, right where Bjorn’s map said it would be. 

“There it is!” Hvitserk called down to the deck.

“What can you see?” Ivar shouted up at him. “Do they have walls? Is there a hall or a fortress?” 

“No fortress that I can see. It looks like they do have walls, but you would need the help of the gods themselves to block off a river.” Hvitserk grinned to himself. “And there’s at least one of the Christian’s churches.” He leapt back to the deck and ambled over to where Ivar was seated, eyeing his hand clutching the rail. “Fear not, little brother, you’ll be able to stop ripping the ship apart very soon.” He took a deep breath of the salt air. “We made it. That town and all its gold is ours for the taking!”

The ship dropped off a swell and Ivar gripped the rail again. “Good,” he said through clenched teeth. But he did allow himself a small smile. After the winter spent hunkered down in England, it was good to be raiding again, to be finally _doing something_. It felt _right_. Half a dozen other ships had followed his on this voyage, nearly three hundred men under his command, and it looked as though the Christians wouldn’t be putting up a shred of resistance. 

Steady footsteps on the deck announced the arrival of their oldest brother. “Looks to be a fine prize indeed. Bjorn’s map was right. We should make landfall very soon.” 

Hvitserk leaned against the rail next to Ivar’s perch. “So Ivar, what is your plan this time, hmm?”

Ivar stared out at the rapidly approaching town, considering. “Have the ships land on the south side of the river, it has more buildings, more targets. We leave a few behind to guard the ships, hit the church first, then spread out from there. Look for a hall or another church - this island is supposed to be quite rich.”

Hvitserk smiled at that. The past few months of raiding in England had put their hoards well on their way to rivaling their famous father’s. 

“But have Earl Halvar take his ship up the river to guard our backs. I do not want any surprises while we are here.”

Ubbe frowned at that. “He and his men will not like that. They will not want to miss the raid.”

Ivar scowled at him. “He and his men will still do it. And they will get their share.” Ubbe stared back at him for a moment but said nothing before looking back out at their target.

“Captives we bring back to the ships. We can sell them as slaves once we’re back in England. And tell the men not to burn the buildings before they’re searched. We’re running short on supplies.” Hvitserk and Ubbe nodded silently, their eyes locked on Dublin. Ivar watched with them, but something still didn't feel right. 

“Are you still with me, brothers?” he asked softly, not daring to look at them. There was an ending to the question that Ivar didn’t say: _…even after Sigurd?_ Ubbe turned and stared at Ivar for a long, quiet moment while Hvitserk pretended like he hadn’t heard him.

“Yes Ivar, we are with you.” His oldest brother’s answer also had an ending that he did not say: _…for now._

A lone bright spot against the green of the shoreline caught Ivar’s eye. He tapped Hvitserk on the shoulder. “What is that?” 

Hvitserk shaded his eyes and peered out. “It looks like a girl…No, two girls… One older, one younger.” He looked at Ubbe leaning against the rail next to him. “Are they _racing_ us?”

“Maybe. Probably trying to beat us to Dublin. Warn whatever farmers and fishermen live there.” 

Hvitserk laughed. “They aren’t going to make it in time.” 

Ubbe smiled. “No they will not. Not even close.” 

The ships were drawing closer to shore, and now Ivar could make out the two girls running along the path. A young woman with dark hair was holding the hand of a much younger blond child, pulling her along behind her and almost dragging her off her feet in her haste. Hvitserk picked up his bow from the deck and pulled out an arrow from his quiver. 

“Think I can make the shot?” He asked his brothers as he drew back and aimed at the lead girl, the dark haired one. 

“No, they are still too far,” Ubbe said. 

Hvitserk lowered his bow and glared at him. “I’ve made harder shots before.”

“No you haven’t.” 

“Yes I have.” 

“Prove it then. Hit the older one.”

“Fine.” Hvisterk adjusted his stance and sighted along his arrow at the dark-haired form fleeing along the shoreline. He took a final breath, but just as he released, Ubbe gave him a sharp shove and his arrow sliced harmlessly into the sea. Ubbe laughed and even Ivar chuckled. 

“Told you.” Ubbe said. 

Hvitserk turned to glare at his brother. “You _always_ do that!” he yelled, outraged. “I get another shot.” He grabbed another arrow, but before he could knock it to the string, the path had taken the two figures into a small wood and they were gone.

“Save your arrows Hvitserk, you’re going to need them,” Ubbe said, putting a hand on his shoulder. Over sounds of the sea and the hum of the wind the three brothers could now hear the faint sound of a bell, tolling a warning. “Because it appears we have been spotted.”

“Good,” said Ivar, a slow smile curling across his face. “Let the little rabbits run to their burrows and hide. It will only make things easier.” 

Ubbe and Hvitserk smiled grimly and left to gather their weapons, leaving Ivar alone at his perch at the rail. He pulled out the axe he wore at his hip and tested its edge on his thumb for the thousandth time. 

Over the sounds of his men readying for battle, as his next target grew closer and closer, Ivar thought he heard the echo of his father’s voice carried to him on the wind. _“WHO WANTS TO BE KING?!”_ Ragnar Lothbrok asked his son yet again. 

_I DO,_ Ivar thought to himself and smiled. 

______________________________________________________________________________

It was almost too easy, taking Dublin. It had simple walls, no way to defend from the river, and few if any warriors to defend it. Ivar’s men went through them like they were cutting down trees. Its church was easily looted, its priests driven off, slaughtered, or captured, and its treasures plundered. Its storehouses were broken open and pillaged, and the ale was already flowing by the time the first buildings were put to the torch. His men had taken few casualties, and Ivar was feeling quite satisfied about the whole raid as he drove his chariot down a smoke shrouded street to find Ubbe and Hvitserk standing in the middle of it. They smiled at him as they saw him drive up and Hvitserk even came over to clap him on the shoulder. 

“Ivar! Are you well?” he asked. 

“Yes, fine,” he said. “And you? Not hurt?” 

“No, I am fine, but it seems our brother here is getting a bit slow in his old age,” he said pointing at Ubbe, who was sporting a bloody gash along his right shoulder. 

“And what happened to you Ubbe?” Ivar asked. 

“It is nothing,” he said, brushing away the question. “One of their warriors thought he could shoot me with an arrow. He was wrong, and he did not get another shot.” 

The sound of faint footsteps came to them through the smoke, and began to get louder, and all three brothers turned around as a young woman emerged around a corner. She stopped dead, her mouth open in shock to see them there. She was tall, with dark hair and she carried a small child on her back, her eyes round and frightened from where they peered at him over the woman’s shoulder. 

_It’s the woman from the shore,_ Ivar thought, recognizing her. 

The woman stared at the three of them for a moment, breathing hard, and for just a second her black eyes met Ivar’s. Then she whirled and was gone back the way she had come. 

Ubbe and Hvitserk both looked at Ivar in confusion. “After her!” he cried. His brothers were off in an instant, and Ivar once again cursed his broken, useless legs that forced him to be left behind until he could bring his chariot about. It was only a moment though before he was galloping after the sounds of his retreating brothers, Hvitserk’s excited whoops and Ubbe’s cries of “This way!” and “Over here!” leading him through the streets. 

Ivar found them again a few streets away, Hvitserk and Ubbe having blocked the girl in against the front of a burnt-out house. They each had their swords brought to bear against her, while she stood in front of the doorway and clutched a meager stick of firewood to defend herself. As Ivar slowed his horse, Hvitserk playfully jabbed at her with his sword, which she blocked with her stick, _shrieking_ at him in retaliation. Hvitserk just laughed and urged Ubbe to give it a try. 

_What a curious thing you are,_ Ivar thought. She looked terrible - hair a mess, clothes covered in dirt, and strange purple streaks around her throat, but she clutched her stick of wood in white-knuckled hands and stood there like a Valkyrie, eyes on fire. Ready to defend that burned-out shack to the death. Her eyes went wider and she clutched her stick even tighter as she noticed him come up. 

_Pitiful, really. This is how she chooses to die, guarding a ruin?…Must have hidden the child in there…_

But no, wait….that was wrong. The house had been small, and the damage from the roof collapse would have left little to no place for even the smallest child to safely fit, especially given the time this woman would have had to hide her. It was wrong….

_Somewhere else then…_

The houses next to where the woman was standing had also burned, but there was what looked to be a nearly intact stables just across the road from the woman’s defensive position. It would have taken her just a split second to make the dash. Ivar meet her eyes again and smiled, understanding what she’d done.

_Oh you clever, clever girl…_

“Hvitserk,” he called to his brother before he could make another jab at her. “This Christian tried to fool us. She’s not protecting anything. The other one is in there,” and he pointed to the wide doorway across the road. 

Hvitserk looked at Ivar, looked back at the woman, sheathed his sword, and shrugged. He turned to walk towards the stables, and as he did, Ivar saw the blood rush out of the woman’s face. She knew that he had found her out. She screamed and made one last desperate swing at Ubbe’s head with her stick. It broke into splinters on his shield, but by that time the woman was already moving. She launched herself across the road after Hvitserk, and made it one, two, three steps before the pommel of Ubbe’s sword caught her on the temple and she dropped like a stone. 


	3. Chapter 3

Michael should not have still been there. He had lost count of the hours he had spent standing outside the doors of the Asgardian hall,  underneath the holly tree, next to one of the Aesir . This was not his home, it not where he belonged. It was not quite…proper… of him. The girl had called on him, yes, prayed desperately for his aid, and Michael had freely given it, delivering her and her sister from the wrath of the Northmen, in accordance with the plans of his Father and His Son. That was that, his work was done. Michael should have left, yet he found when he thought about it, he did not quite want to. These humans made by his Father were strange creatures, their lives driven by urges utterly foreign to Michael. The full spans of their lives were just heartbeats compared to his great existence, yet they burned so brightly, and lived so fiercely. It was if they knew that their lives would be short and fleeting, and thus they woke each day determined, no _demanding_ to be seen and heard and _remembered_. 

Yes, to Michael they were worthy of further inspection and study. 

And at the moment, the world below him was quiet. His Father had not yet called him home. The Fallen One was still trapped in the Great Abyss, locked in his cage, with his companions chained alongside him. The Seven Seals were still intact, the Seven Trumpets not yet sounded. Beyond the Great Darkness the Horsemen were still trapped. 

Michael was not yet needed. 

He had time. 

And so, he stayed.

______________________________________________________________________________

Moncha's first thought as she swam back toward consciousness was that she was cold now, the bone-deep, aching kind she thought the spring had finally driven off. 

Her second thought was that someone had trapped a rat inside of her skull, which was now trying to claw its way to freedom in sharp, painful bursts through her left temple, and she wanted nothing more that to give that person a good beating. 

Her third thought was of Siobhan, and with that her eyes shot open, only to immediately snap closed again. It was night, and the light of the fire she’d been facing had stabbed into her skull, multiplying the rats trapped inside. Slowly, she raised one hand and pressed it against the pain in her head, whimpering when she felt the cold, sticky wetness trapped in her hair. She tried opening her eyes again, slower this time, and cast her gaze slowly around the room. 

She was in the church, curled up against one of the walls. The cold of the stone was seeping through her dress and setting her to shivering. The heathens had broken all of the windows in their rampage and now an icy wind was creeping in through the gaping wounds in the walls. To drive away the cold, they had built a bonfire in the center of the nave, made of fragments of smashed pews and what looked like armloads of books stolen from the monastery. Moncha felt fresh tears sliding down her filthy cheeks at the sight - the only way the brothers would have allowed such sacrilege to occur would be if all of them were dead. 

The ruin of the church was nearly empty. Moncha could hear slurred, drunken voices shout-singing some sort of pagan tune from somewhere outside, but inside with her there were only two men next to the fire, sitting in stolen chairs, drinking stolen ale, and eating stolen food. 

There was no sign of Siobhan. 

One of the men must have heard her stirring, because he stood up and began ambling towards her. Moncha clamped her eyes shut, curled her body tighter against the cold, and tried to steady her breathing, hoping he’d think her just gripped by a nightmare and leave her alone. She heard the scuff of his boots on the stone getting closer and closer, and then they stopped. The silence began to stretch. 

_Go away, go away, go away, go away…_ she prayed, hoping he couldn’t hear the galloping of her heart, but no such luck. One of the boot toes reached out and nudged her in the shoulder, not hard, but enough to rock her backwards a bit before her body resettled against the stone floor. Moncha ignored it and continued to feign sleep. The boot nudged at here again, a little harder this time, and still Moncha ignored it. 

_Leave me alone, go away, go away, go away, go away…_

The Northman said something to her then - it sounded like a question. Again came the boot on her shoulder, but this time, it pushed her back against the wall so hard the back of her head connected with the stone and she saw stars. The pain in her head exploded, flaring up like a hungry torch, and Moncha clutched her hands to her skull with a cry, trying to smother it away. When she could finally bear to open her eyes again, she stiffened in fear when she saw who had kicked her. It was one of the Northmen who had chased her earlier, the smiling, laughing one who had made a game out of trying to kill her, the one who had taken Siobhan. Now, instead of toying with her like a cat with its prey, he just stared down at her, gnawing on a chicken leg and giving her a curious look. Moncha stared back at him and tried not to let her terror show. Interspersed with the icy tendrils of fear now winding their way through her chest, Moncha felt a hot spike of pride when she noticed that the man had several nasty looking wounds on his hands and forearms, wounds that looked to have been made by a small set of human teeth. 

_GOOD GIRL,_ Moncha thought. 

The Northman studied her for a few moments more while Moncha clutched her head and tried not to whimper, then nodded his head and turned away. He spoke a few words to the other man sitting by the fire, before disappearing out into the night. 

_Well…I suppose the game is up,_ Moncha thought, as she closed her eyes and slowly struggled into a sitting position, one arm wrapped around her knees and the other hand still pressed tightly to her head. Opening her eyes again, she narrowly stopped herself from jumping and hitting her head on the wall yet again when she realized that the second Northman was standing only a few feet from her. 

He was taller than other one, with blue eyes and long hair from just the crown of his head pulled back in a braid. Moncha tried not to notice that he was also currently shirtless and had a bloody bandage wrapped around the top of a well-muscled arm. But his eyes did not seem unkind, and the hand he extended out to her held a hunk of brown bread. When Moncha didn't move to take it, fearing some Northman’s pagan trick, he sighed, stepped, closer, and waved it in front of her face again. Cautiously, Moncha reached a hand out, and snatched the Northman’s gift out of his hand. Clutching it to her chest, she took a small, cautious bite and had to stop herself from groaning - she had no idea how long she’d been unconscious and she was _ravenous_. The Northman gave her a satisfied nod, and Moncha nodded back before she could stop herself. 

The sound of footsteps drew her attention to the door. The first of the Northmen strode back inside and cut a straight line back across the nave to the warmth of the bonfire. Underneath the echo of his footsteps though, Moncha thought she could hear a strange scraping, dragging sound. 

Then, he appeared. It was the third of the Northman who had chased her earlier, the one with the chariot who had seen through her plan, the one with the thunderstorm eyes. But he was…wrong. Something was wrong with him. Instead of walking like a normal man, he crawled on his hands, slithering along the ground like a serpent from one of her Granny’s old tales. And suddenly, Moncha knew who he was. 

_Oh Lord, not him, please God, not him, sweet Jesus, please save me, help me please…_

The gift of bread tumbled out of her hands as Moncha scrambled backwards on her hands and knees, sliding along the rough stone wall until her back hit a corner. 

_Help me Jesus, please help me, save me from him, save me from the monster, please Lord…_

Moncha wrapped her arms around her knees, making herself as small as she could, and forgot all about trying to hide her whimpers of fear. She’d heard of this man. Everyone had. People whispered his name in fear, and crossed themselves when they heard it, as though the mere mention of his name could make the man appear like the devil himself. He was the one responsible for the destruction currently sweeping across England. He was the one responsible for the slaughter of untold Christians, the desecration of countless houses of God, for gruesomely murdered kings, and for the refugees flooding Ireland’s shores, each one of them fleeing the wrath of the Northmen. Or maybe, it was really just the wrath of _one_ Northman. _This_ Northman. _Ivar the Boneless._

_Oh dear God, don’t let him hurt me, don’t let him take me, please help me, please…._

_________________________________________________________________________

Ivar crawled across the floor of the church, avoiding the worst of the rubble, before boosting himself up on a chair by the fire. He accepted Ubbe’s offered cup of ale and considered the woman sitting across the room from him. He watched her as she sat trembling against the wall like a cornered animal, and she stared back at him with wild black eyes that didn't blink. 

She was beautiful, he supposed, but in the way that a wolf was beautiful, all wild softness but with the promise of teeth.

She also knew who he was, of that Ivar was certain. He’d seen her reaction when he’d come in, the way she’d thrown herself backward to get away from him, as though he were diseased. Ivar’s life had made him used to looks of pity, disbelief, or even disgust, but this, this was fear _,_ this was _sheer terror,_ and that could be….useful. 

Ivar took another drink and turned to Ubbe and Hvitserk. “Bring her closer.” 

His two brothers drained their cups and stood up from their chairs. The woman shrank back as they got closer, trying to make herself even smaller, but started shrieking like a wild dog once they touched her. She tried to fight them as they dragged her towards the fire, clawing and biting and screaming curses at them, but her boots could find no purchase on the smooth stone floor and she was no match for the strength of his brothers. She tried to get up and flee again once Ubbe and Hvitserk had wrestled her into the chair next to Ivar, but Ubbe caught her by a shoulder and threw her back, clamping his arms around her chest to hold her against the chair while Hvitserk held her kicking feet. And still she struggled. Ubbe’s grip wouldn’t let her twist quite enough to get him with her teeth, but she had enough bend in her elbows to raise her hands and get her nails into his arms, sinking them deep and drawing fresh tracks of red. Ubbe released his grip with an indignant shout, and the woman surged forward far enough to crack Hvitserk across the jaw and knock him backward before Ubbe caught a new grip in her hair and yanked her back.

“Ivar, tell her to stop!” Ubbe shouted at him. 

The woman screamed and clapped her hands to her head at this fresh pain in her skull. Keeping one hand firmly threaded through her black hair and her neck forcibly pulled back, Ubbe reached over and caught both of her flailing red-nailed hands in one of his. 

“Ivar! Tell her!” Ubbe shouted at him again. 

The woman managed to twist and give Hvitserk a hard, bruising kick in the shoulder before he got her feet pinned back against the floor and she was just drawing breath to curse them again when Ivar spoke. 

“Woman, that’s enough!” he roared. 

She froze, teeth bared in a snarl and eyes locked on Ivar. The shock was written plain on her face that he’d spoken in a language she understood.

“You speak English?” she asked through shaky breaths. 

_Of course I speak English_ , he thought.

“The English murdered our father.”

“Our father?”

Ivar gestured at the woman’s captors. “My brother’s, Ubbe and Hvitserk,” he said with a little smile.

The woman tried again to wrench her hands out of Ubbe’s grip. “Tell _your brothers_ to get their hands off me.”

“Not until you promise to behave yourself.” 

“Behave myself!?”

“We’re not going to hurt you.”

_“Not going to hurt me!?”_ The woman surprised Ivar by letting out a half-hysterical laugh. “I know who you are, Northman! I know _what_ you are! What you’ve _done_! And now you sit here, in a desecrated house of God and tell me to _behave myself!?_ ” Her laugh rang out again against the church’s stone walls, tinged with hysteria and shock. 

Ivar tried a different tactic. “We have your daughter.”

Instantly the woman froze, eyes back on Ivar. “Siobhan? Where is she?” she demanded. 

“She is safe.”

“Prove it.” 

Ivar chuckled, “You don’t get to make demands. But I swear to you that she will come to no harm as long as you do what you’re told. Understand?” 

Slowly, the woman nodded, and at a word from Ivar, Ubbe and Hvitserk cautiously released her. Slowly, she laid her hands down on the arms of the chair, while his brothers walked back around the fire to sit next to Ivar. When Ivar glanced at them he saw Hvitserk rubbing the spot on his jaw where she’d cracked him and Ubbe was examining the new scratches on his arms. 

_Quite the fighter, aren’t you?_

A scraping sound drew his attention back to the woman. She’d pulled her chair closer to the fire and was shivering in front of it as though she’d forgotten what it felt like to be warm. Her eyes widened when she noticed Ivar’s gaze on her, afraid that he’d break his word and have Ubbe and Hvitserk grab her again, but he shook his head. 

“It’s alright. Get warm.”

The woman gave him a swift nod and held her hands out to the fire. 

“What is your name?” he asked her. 

The woman didn’t look at him. “Where is Siobhan?” she shot back.

“I’ve already told you she is safe. That is all you need to know.”

The woman kept her eyes on the fire but her jaw clenched like she was biting her tongue. “Moncha.”

“What?” Ivar asked. 

“Moncha. My name is Moncha.”

“And what does that mean?”

Moncha finally turned to look at him, drawing up to her full height in the chair. 

“ _Alone_ ,” she sneered, eyes plainly full of her wish to toss both him and his brothers into the bonfire. 

Ivar cocked his head. “Did your father have no sons then?” Moncha shook her head just a fraction. “What a pity, for a man to not have a son to carry on his legacy…My father had five sons before his death.” 

“Does that include you?” she asked, raising a dark eyebrow.

Ivar clenched his fists so hard his knuckles popped. Moncha must have heard the sound, for her feet shifted like she was getting ready to run, and Ivar saw Ubbe and Hvitserk lean forward, ready to spring after her. 

“It’s alright,” Ivar said to them, waiving them back in their seats. He gave Moncha his best attempt at a smile and changed the subject.

“We saw you on the shore, before the raid. You and your girl. My brother Hvitserk thought he could shoot you but Ubbe stopped him.”

Moncha flicked her eyes at Ubbe and curled her lip. “Please thank your kind brother for my deliverance. I will be sure to pray for him.”

“You were coming back here to warn the town?”

“We were.”

“You were never going to make it in time.”

“Still had to try.”

“Why bother? Why not run and warn some other town? Hide somewhere?”

Moncha sighed. “Because Dublin is _my home_ , Northman. Or at least it was until you and your men _took it_ from me. I had to at least _try_. Pray for a miracle and try. ” 

Ivar sat back and considered her over the rim of his cup of ale. Her shivering had mostly stopped by now, and it seemed like tiredness was creeping in. 

“You have lived in Dublin your whole life?” he asked after a long moment. 

Moncha nodded. “I have.” 

“Then you know Ireland. You know the land here, the rivers? Which kings and earls are the strongest?”

“Some…I suppose…why?”

“Because, little Lonely Woman, I am going to take all of this island, and you are going to help me.” 

_“What?!”_ her eyes went wide again. 

“You heard me. I am going to become king of Ireland, and you are going to help me do it. So long as you do, your daughter will remain safe and unharmed. Betray me and…” Ivar raised a hand and let the threat speak for itself, but Moncha was already vehemently shaking her head. 

“No. No I refuse, I won’t do it, I’ll-”

“I’m sure you just need some time to think about it,” Ivar cut her off. “Take her and lock her in one of the priest’s rooms,” he asked Ubbe and Hvitserk. “Make sure she gets food but see that no one else speaks to her.” 

His brothers drained their cups and stood. Moncha’s eyes darted around the room, not sure what was going on, until Ubbe and Hvitserk each grabbed one of her arms and started dragging her towards the door. Ivar’s gaze followed her out, and she threw her screams and curses back at him. Ivar leaned back in his chair and took another drink. 

_Oh yes_ , he thought with a smile, as her struggling cries floated back to him, _you will be useful indeed._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence against women, just a touch o’ smut, and one royally pissed-off Celtic battle goddess.

The Aesir and the Archangel watch from above as the tall Northmen drag the dark-haired young woman out of the ruins of the church and towards the line of small stone huts just beyond the watch tower. She is still fighting, kicking and cursing at them, calling on her God to protect her, and Michael feels each of her pleas as a slap of pressure against his chest as they wing their way heavenward. She manages to rip free of her captors for a moment, makes it a few running steps away before the older of the brothers tackles her to the ground. He yanks her upright and deals her a vicious blow across the face, and she doubles over, clutching her head in a pained stupor. The Northman and his brother take advantage of her temporary daze by picking her up, carrying her to the nearest of the priests’ huts, and throwing her inside. They bar the door and leave her there as night falls. 

The next morning, one of the brothers brings her food and water, and not long after that the youngest Northman, the crippled one, comes to speak with her. He situates himself near the doorway, hefts an axe in one hand, and with the other unbars the door and swings it open. He stays and speaks with the girl for perhaps an hour, maybe a little longer, and then he leaves, trapping her back inside. The girl is left alone until evening, when she is brought another meal. Michael and Heimdall watch each day as this pattern repeats, four, five, six times. 

On the morning of the seventh day, the god and the angel are startled out of their pondering by the roaring whoosh of a hungry fire and a woman appears from behind them. Her hair is the color of burning coals, and her eyes, the bright green of new spring leaves, are sparking with rage. She wears dark bronze armor inlaid with gold, and her white-knuckled hand clutches the hilt of a sword as she stalks over to them. She glances down to where the young Northman is once again having his daily conference with the dark-haired young woman before whirling to Michael. 

“What are you **_doing_**?!” she demands. 

“Calm yourself, Brigid,” Michael says, a disappointed parent to a misbehaving child, even though she is much, much older than him. Brigid comes closer and now Michael can feel the heat radiating off of her. 

“Miserable _upstart_!” Brigid shouts. “There she sits, one of _my_ children, on the island that you and your _wretched Father_ took from me, trapped in a monastery that bears _your_ name, and yet you stand up here doing _nothing_! She has _prayed_ to _you_ , so fervently and so often that even _I_ haveheard it, so I ask again, what are you **_doing_** _?!_ ” 

“It is not for me to do anything, Brigid. I cannot. It is not part of His plan. Not yet.” 

The heat radiating off of Brigid increases and the edges of her armor are beginning to glow red. 

“Then **_what good are you?!_** ” she cries, and draws her sword.

“Careful, Brigid,” Michael warns, shifting his feet slightly into a fighter’s stance and looking at her down the length of her blade. “The fate of this island has already been settled. If you wish to battle for it again, it will not go well for you.” 

The heat coming off of the goddess increases again, her hair dancing like a flame and her armor growing white hot. In the shimmering heat haze Michael sees the ghostly outlines of a woman in a pale dress and a woman in a long leather coat standing next to her, both also holding blades of shining steel and ready for battle. “Miserable **_wretch_** _,”_ Brigid roars, her ghostly sisters adding their voices to hers in a triple harmony. “You think you have won my island and taken my children from me forever, and perhaps you have, but enough of them still know my name and tell my stories that if you do not help that girl, then I swear by The Dagda **_I will make you pay for it!_** ”

Michael considers her for a moment while Heimdall stands off to the side wearing a look of mild interest. Brigid is frozen, swords held high and ready, waiting for the slightest excuse to vent her rage and frustration. 

“Very well,” Michael agrees, and the swords lower by the barest amount. “But it will have to be something small.”

“ _Anything,”_ Brigid pleads. “Just _do something!_ ” 

Micheal nods, and Brigid finally relaxes, her ghostly sisters disappearing and her armor slowly cooling back to its usual dull bronze. She sheathes her sword, but continues to glower as Michael steps up to the edge and extends his hand towards the young woman’s cell. 

——————————————————————————————————————

They put her in one of the priest’s stone huts. Hit her across the face and shut her away like an unruly dog. For hours, Moncha lay on the hard wooden cot inside, shivering in the cold of the early spring night, clutching her pounding head in her hands, and trying not to cry. The wracking, shuddering sobs that would rip their way out of her only increased the agony in her head. Once her exhaustion finally claimed her she slept fitfully, and dreamed of her family, of her mother and father and Siobhan, of frantically searching for them through Dublin’s smoke-choked streets. She could hear their voices calling out to her, and they always seemed so close, just out of sight or around the corner, but no matter how fast she ran she could never find them. 

The younger of the Northman’s brothers, Hvitserk, woke her up the next morning - the rough scraping of the door opening pulling her out of what she was trying to pass off as sleep. Moncha tensed at the sound and curled up tighter on her wooden cot, making herself as small as possible, but the Northman hadn’t come to harm her again. Instead he just leaned against the doorframe and shooed forward a mousy looking woman in a rough spun dress, who slipped inside and set a small plate of food and jug of ale on the rickety wooden table on the other side of the door. The woman disappeared for a moment, then came back carrying a basin of water and a cloth that she placed next to the food. Peering up at Hvitserk through slitted eyes Moncha could just make out the beginnings of a dark purple bruise along his jaw in the early morning light. It must have come from where she’d cracked him with her fist the night before, and she had to hide her face in her arms to mask a smile. It was a small thing to be proud of, such a silly thing to bring on such a rush of vindication. Father Riordan would tell her that such pride was a sin, that it was unnatural for a young woman to take part in such violence, but Father Riordan was probably dead now, so Moncha wasn’t going to pay him any mind. 

The smell of hot bread and butter made Moncha’s stomach rumble, and she cautiously uncurled herself and stood, swaying slightly from the pain in her head, as the Northman’s slave scurried out and Hvitserk made to bar the door. Their eyes locked across the tiny room and when he saw her gaze flick down to the mark he gestured up at it and gave her a tiny, impressed nod. Moncha gave him a cold smile in return and nodded back as he shut the door and sealed her back in her tomb. 

Cursing him under her breath, Moncha fumbled her way over to the table, trusting her nose to guide her towards her breakfast. In the weak light leaking through the chinks in the stone walls, she could see that in addition to the bread and butter, Hvitserk had brought her a few of last fall’s apples and a wedge of hard cheese. She tore into it like a rabid wolf, shoving food into her mouth without a single thought of manners or what she might look like, gulping from the jug of ale to soothe her parched throat. 

It took far less time than she would have liked for Moncha to finish everything, she even licked the crumbs from the plate when she found herself still hungry. Pushing the plate away from her, she reached for the basin of water and the cloth. 

_Kind of them to bring it…_ she thought, before violently pushing the sentiment away. 

The water was cold, but Moncha didn’t care. She slowly dipped the cloth in the water, before carefully, gently, bringing the rag to the mass of dried blood and sticky hair on her temple. Hissing in pain, she gently dabbed at the spot, fingers slipping over a lump the size of a chicken egg, and in the growing light filtering through the stones she could see that the rag came away red. She kept dabbing at the spot, whimpering at the feel of the cold water against her temple, until she could tuck her hair back behind her ear and feel the small cut behind her eye from where the oldest Northman - Ubbe? - had hit her with his sword. 

_I suppose it will heal…and if not, I suppose I shouldn’t complain. It’s just a scar…Not like I have anyone to impress anymore._

Dipping the rag back into the now alarmingly pink water, Moncha began roughly scrubbing at the berry juice stains on her arms and neck, the sight of the purple streaks yanking her thoughts back to Siobhan. The pain in her head the night before and the hunger in her belly this morning had been enough to keep her little sister out of her mind, but now Moncha had nothing else to think about. 

She was still so small, so young. What could she be thinking? Would she think that Moncha was dead? That she’d abandoned her - run off to save herself and left her behind? Or was she hoping that Moncha would come back for her, fierce in her four year old conviction that she would eventually be saved? 

_Please let it be that one…please let her still have hope…please let her be safe…_

Where could they be holding her? In the slave pens with the other captives? Or had some Northman, some other _godless heathen_ , already taken her away? Was she even now working her little fingers raw for one of the monsters that had destroyed her home? 

Moncha growled deep in her throat, crossing her legs and hiking up her skirt to scrub at the dirt caking her calf. 

And what of her mother and father? If they were still alive, if they had also been taken as slaves, then they would find Siobhan. They would keep her safe. If they were still alive. 

_Please God….Dear Lord….She is still so young….Oh please keep her safe….Let them all be safe…._

For most of her life, Moncha had been an only child, born ten years after her parent’s marriage. A long series of miscarriages that did nothing but sap her mother’s health and wrack her father with guilt and worry had forced Davin and Orla to resign themselves to a childless marriage, until Moncha came along. She’d been born perfectly healthy, with a red face and a shock of black hair. Her parents had thought themselves blessed to finally have been given a child, but they couldn’t fathom ever being blessed with another, so they had named her Moncha, “Alone,” and given her all the love they’d saved up over the long years of waiting and wanting. For fifteen years, that had been her life, doted on and adored by her parents. Then her sister had come along, an unplanned and unexpected blessing, so they’d named her Siobhan, “God is gracious.” She’d been a tiny, frail thing when she was born, so delicate and small, but her birth had still sapped away Orla’s once robust health, so her parents knew that there could be no more children. 

Lost in thoughts of her tiny sister, Moncha had been absentmindedly listening to the footsteps of passers-by while she attacked the dirt caking her legs until a rough scraping, slithering sound caught her attention. She froze in place, rag poised and dripping over her toes as the door swung open to reveal the youngest Northman, Ivar, leaning against the doorframe and holding an axe. Moncha saw his eyes drop to take in her bare legs and something strange passed over his face before she yanked her skirts back down and broke the spell. Ivar exhaled sharply, and she saw him thickly swallow before he raised his eyes back hers, his usual smirk back in place.

“Lonely Woman.” 

“Heathen.”

He squinted up at her. “Your head looks terrible.” 

She glared back at him, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around her knees. “And I see my prayers for your death were not answered.” 

He huffed out a quick laugh and settled himself more comfortably against the door frame, laying his axe across his knees. “Are you ready to talk?” 

“I’ll tell you whatever you want if you let me see Siobhan.” 

“You will tell me what I want to know, _truthfully_ , and if I am feeling generous then I may decide to let you see your daughter.”

Moncha closed her eyes and sent a quick, fervent prayer to Saint Michael, hoping against hope that she was making the right decision. If he kept her here long, then he would find out eventually. “Then you should know that Siobhan is not my daughter. She’s my sister.” 

Ivar seemed taken aback by this. “But you…you tried so hard to get her away…tried so hard to keep her hidden…you are not married? She is not yours?”

“No - why does that matter? You wouldn’t have done the same thing for your own brothers? They wouldn’t have done it for you?”

A shadow passed over Ivar’s face - from the look in his eyes Moncha thought he wasn’t quite sure.

“Only my mother would do such a thing for me…” 

“Your mother?”

Ivar quickly shook his head, bringing himself out of the trance, and looked back at Moncha, face carved in stone.

“She’s gone now. She feasts with Odin in Valhalla. And she is not who I am here to talk about.” 

For the next hour Ivar questioned her. Some questions made sense to her, while others seemed odd, but Moncha answered them all truthfully, cursing herself with every word that she spoke while at the same time telling herself that it was for Siobhan. She would gladly damn herself if it meant keeping her little sister safe. So she let the words fall from her lips like raindrops and told Ivar everything he wanted to know. 

Was there game in the forests? What about bears or wolves? Which river was better for fishing? Were there whales or seals to hunt in the sea? 

Were there any other monasteries near Dublin? What were their names? How rich were they? Were they upriver or overland? Who might come to Dublin to seek revenge if they were attacked? 

Where would someone go for help if they had escaped the attack? A monastery? Another town? A large farm somewhere in the countryside? How long would it take for word to spread of the Northmen’s arrival? 

Was there another town nearby that could send warriors to drive them away? If another monastery received word of the Northmen’s arrival, would they send word to the King of Tara, this Máel Sechnaill? How many warriors did he have? How far was it to his stronghold? Could the Northmen sail there, or would they have to march overland? 

On and on the questions went, with Moncha eventually leaving her seat at the table and getting up to pace around the confines of her little cell, Ivar’s eyes following her as she went. 

Ivar seemed to grow frustrated when Moncha couldn’t tell him precisely how many warriors the Ulster kings might be able to command, or where exactly their fortresses were located. She tried pointing out to him that _she had never actually been there_ and all she had to go on were her father’s stories and tales heard in the marketplace, but the Northman wasn’t having it. He just kept needling her, asking her the same questions over and over in slightly different ways until finally she whirled on him. 

“What does it matter anyway?!” she snarled. “No matter what you do, you will never be accepted as king! _Never!_ The law demands that the king be physically perfect, not some boneless cr—” 

Ivar cut her off before she could finish. Roaring like a beast, his hand shot out, grabbed her ankle, and yanked her off her feet. Before she knew it, she was on her back in the dirt, with Ivar on top of her, the metal points of his armor pricking her skin through the fabric of her dress and the sting of his axe blade against her neck. She tried to push him off of her, but he was too heavy. Ivar gripped a handful of her hair, yanked her neck back at a painful angle, and pressed the blade of his axe deeper into her throat. 

“Say it again!” he roared as Moncha felt a warm trickle of blood run down her neck. “Call me a cripple _one more time!_ ” 

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! _Please!_ ” Moncha gasped, gripping at his wrist and feeling herself start to tremble in his hold. Ivar snarled down at her one more time, the thunderstorm back in his eyes, before he rolled onto one elbow and roughly shoved her away with his other hand. Moncha scrambled away, sitting up with her back pressed to her cot, and pressed a hand to her neck. Her fingers came away red while he sat across the room from her, still breathing hard and with lightning in his eyes. 

“It’s true though,” she murmured after a moment, and flung her hands up when it looked like Ivar might come at her again. “Wait! _Wait!”_ she pleaded, and he relaxed slightly. “I said I would be truthful with you, and I _am_! Irish law demands that a king be physically perfect in every way. Those that aren’t are not allowed to rule! Congal Caech was dethroned after he was blinded, and so was Nuada after he lost an arm in battle. The king is supposed to be a mirror to the land. Máel Sechnaill is going to come after you simply because you are too close to his territory, but your legs are going to give every other king in Ireland just one more excuse to do everything they can to drive you out.” 

Ivar considered this for a moment, staring at the packed earth of the floor. When he looked back up at her the thunderstorm was fading from his eyes. 

“Well….I will just have to defeat them all then.”

“That’s…That’s not what I meant…” Moncha sputtered before Ivar cut her off.

“It would not be the first time I killed a king. Thank you, Lonely Woman, for giving me so much to think about.” 

With that, Ivar turned and began crawling through the door, leaving Moncha still leaning against her cot with a dumbfounded look on her face. It was only when he had made it fully outside, with his hand ready to close the door that she remembered herself. 

“Wait!” she called out. “Let me see my sister! _Please!_ I just need to know that she’s safe!” 

Ivar tilted his head and considered her for a moment. “No,” he said. The heathen even had the _gall_ to smile at her before he closed and barred the door, leaving Moncha alone again. 

With a shriek of frustration, Moncha launched herself across the room and flung herself against the closed door. It held fast. She tried pulling out the stones around the doorframe, anything she could do to get herself _out_ , but it was no use. Humble as it might be, the little stone hut was solidly built and it would not let Moncha escape. 

So she spent the rest of the day alone, but that was fine. Moncha was good at being alone. She could do alone. 

For a while she lay on her cot and listened to the bustle of activity outside her stone walls and tried to guess what the Northmen were doing. She heard clanging steel on steel from somewhere nearby, and for a moment her heart leapt, thinking that help had somehow arrived so soon, but instead of hearing running footsteps and barked orders over the clanging sound she heard only laughter and what had to be jokes. Not deliverance then - training maybe? A few times she thought she heard the voice of Ivar’s brothers - Hvitserk and Ubbe, the one who had hit her but also the one who had offered her food the night before. Once she definitely heard the scraping sound that meant Ivar was approaching. Moncha tensed as the sound stopped outside her door for a long moment, hardly daring to breathe. and only relaxed once the sound moved away. Towards afternoon she heard the sound of axes and hammers on wood and hoped against hope that maybe the Northmen were simply repairing their ships, getting ready to sail away and never return. 

For a time, she knelt in front of her little table, the closest she could come to an altar, and prayed for Siobhan, for her mother and father, and for her own deliverance. She prayed to God, to Jesus, to the Virgin Mary, to Saint Michael, to anyone who might be listening, anyone who might be moved to help her, until her knees ached and her back grew stiff.

She slept for a few hours during the warmest part of the day, and woke up feeling less rested than before. 

She paced around her little cell, and counted the stones in its walls. There were 214 of them in the foundation ring, and 47 around the doorframe. She tried counting them all, from the foundation ring to the domes roof, but could never manage to make it more than two or three rows high before losing her place and needing to start over. She kept at it for hours though, until the light grew too dim for her to see their outlines and she had to give up. 

The sound of the door opening startled her out of a fitful doze, and Moncha sprang upright, thinking that she’d somehow missed the sound of Ivar approaching, but it was just Hvitserk and the mousy woman again, come to bring her more food. The bruise has settled in to the side of his face now, a dark purple smear across the line of his jaw, and Hvitserk caught her looking again. 

“Sorry,” Moncha said. Hvitserk looked confused, so Moncha tried again, touching her fingertips to her own face and wincing in mock pain. 

“Sorry.” 

A light goes off in the Northman’s eyes and Hvitserk smiles at her.

“Is nothing. Good hit.” 

_So he_ **_does_ ** _speak English then…just not as well as Ivar…_

_And he actually has a nice voice…for a heathen…he might be a good singer too…_

Moncha smiles back at him. “Still sorry. Thank you for the food.” 

Hvitserk just nods before he barks something out to the mousy woman in his own tongue. She scurried out the door for a moment before returning with a thick wool blanket. Moncha took it gratefully, choking back a grateful sob and managing to not snatch it out of the woman’s hands. The sun was going down and already the chill was starting to creep through the stone walls of her cell.

“Ivar tell me to bring. Not want you to be sick.” 

“Thank you,” Moncha murmured, and this time she honestly meant it. She smiled up at Hvitserk, struck by the unexpected kindness. 

Hvitserk smiled back at her, an odd look in his eyes, until the mousy woman tapped him lightly on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Hvitserk shook his head ruefully and turned back to Moncha. 

“I come back in morning.” 

“Alright,” Moncha said. “See you in the morning.” 

Hvitserk gave her one last, lingering look before he closed the door and let the bar drop, sealing her in. 

And so the pattern repeated, day after day. Every morning, Hvitserk would bring the mousy woman with him to bring her food and ale and empty the bucket under her cot, always being sure to leave her with a basin of water and a cloth to wash with. Ivar would appear perhaps an hour or two later, and question her about everything from the typical output of the blacksmiths of Dublin to the recent harvests of the surrounding farms. The questioning was always finished by mid-day, so Moncha would be left alone for hours after he left, to think and pray and count stones. As the light in her cell would fade as the sun approached the horizon, Hvitserk and the mousy woman would appear again, bringing more food and drink. Gradually, he began to stay longer and longer during his little visits. Every day he would pick up a few more English words, and after the morning of the third day Moncha decided that, as far as Northmen went, he actually wasn’t bad company. She stopped hoarding her smiles when he was around and no longer flinched when he got too close. Hvitserk could even be funny, when he could find enough words that they both understood, and she liked his laugh. 

On the morning of her seventh day in captivity, Hvitserk spent nearly fifteen minutes talking with her, sitting next to her on her little cot and telling her about sailing to Hispania with his older brother while the mousy woman waited outside the door. Moncha listened, entranced, while he haltingly told her about visiting his uncle’s castle in Frankia, attacking a Moorish city, and sailing around the tip of Hispania into a strange unknown sea. 

Evidently the story was taking too much time, because the mousy woman appeared in the doorway and said something to Hvitserk in a worried voice. Moncha caught Ivar and Ubbe’s names in her plea, and Hvitserk groaned once the woman had finished, turning to Moncha with an apologetic look on his face. 

“I come back tonight again,” he said, softly tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear, eyes lingering on her lips. 

“I will be here,” Moncha said, and Hvitserk laughed softly, looking like he’d very much like to stay where he was, before the mousy woman called to him again and he got up to leave with a sigh. 

Moncha watched him go, and she thought he looked almost regretful as he slowly closed the door, softly lowering the bar into place to shut her inside. 

That afternoon, when Hvitserk opened the door, Moncha was asleep on her cot. The sound of the door woke her like it always did, and she smiled when she saw him enter. Arching her back, she didn’t fail to notice the way his eyes wandered down her body as she stretched the kinks out of her muscles. Sitting up on her cot and pushing her blanket aside, she held out a hand to him. 

“Tell me more about Hispania,” she asked. “My father went there once, before he married my mother.” 

Hvitserk grinned and sat beside her on the cot, and Moncha leaned her head against his shoulder as he took up the story from where he’d been interrupted that morning. He was a good storyteller, even with his limited English. Closing her eyes, Moncha let her mind travel, smiling while Hvitserk described tall towers, markets filled with rare spices and fruits, and women draped in silk and gold. 

This time, once the visit was over, Moncha slipped her hand into his, got up and followed him to the doorway. 

“Thank you for the story,” she said, looking up at him through her lashes.

“I happy you like it,” he replied, gently pulling her closer before snaking his hand up her arm. “I sorry I cannot stay,” he murmured, “My brothers, they say no.” Despite his words, Hvitserk’s fingers still ghosted across her shoulder and up the column of her neck while his other hand came up to gently rest against the small of her back. He pulled her closer until their foreheads were touching, and Moncha couldn’t stop the little shudder that ran up her spine. The mousy woman gave an alarmed squeak, but Hvitserk ignored her. 

“I’m sorry you cannot stay too,” Moncha whispered, running her hands up his chest and biting her lip. “I want you to.” 

Moncha gasped when Hvitserk gave a little growl and pressed her back against the doorframe. Dimly she heard the footsteps of the mousy woman hurrying away.Tightening his grip on her waist, Hvitserk tilted his head to the side and pressed his lips to hers, softly, tentatively, like he was holding himself back and didn’t want to scare her. He pulled away for just a moment, long enough to gauge her reaction, and grinned when Moncha threaded her fingers through his hair and brought her lips up for another kiss.

This time he didn’t hold back, melding his lips with hers, running his teeth along her lower lip, and coaxing her mouth open to taste her. He groaned as Moncha just gripped him tighter, running her hands up and down his chest, clinging to his waist, trailing her hands up to clutch at the muscles of his shoulders and back. 

Moncha was panting and whimpering, her hips gently rocking against Hvitserk’s while he trailed burning kisses up and down her neck, when she heard footsteps approaching. 

“Hvitserk!” shouted a deep voice. 

The two of them sprang apart. It was Ubbe, brought by the mousy woman, looking confused and a little outraged by what he saw. Moncha hid her hands behind her back like a naughty child, while Hvitserk just stood there and laughed at her quickly reddening face. 

A brief argument ensued between the two brothers, with Ubbe shouting down Hvitserk’s excuses, until the younger brother turned to Moncha. 

“I sorry. Ubbe says I need go. Leave you here” he said. He trailed his knuckles along her cheekbone and shuddered at the way she bit her lip and leaned into his touch. 

“Al—Alright,” Moncha whispered, still feeling a little light headed and breathless. She glanced over at Ubbe and slowly backed into her cell, returning Hvitserk’s regretful little smile as he closed and barred the door.

Moncha counted to 100 after the door closed before dropping to her knees. Frantically, she ran her hands over the hard-packed dirt, eyes straining in the weakening light, until she found it. 

Hvitserk’s knife. 

A few feet from the doorway, hidden in shadow, right where she’d carefully dropped it after slipping it off his belt. 

_Oh thank you Jesus….it worked….._

Moncha tightly clutched the knife’s smooth bone handle, sending another quick prayer of thanks heavenward until a sudden noise made her nearly drop it. It was something like the dry, flapping, scrabbling sound of a bird caught in roof thatch, coming from somewhere outside of her cell. She watched in astonishment as a stone about waist high in the wall began to shift, quietly twisting this way and that, until it dropped to the grass outside with a soft plop. It left a hole the size of her two fists in its wake, and through it Moncha caught a glimpse of white feathers as she dashed over. 

There was no one around once she peered through the hole - just the back wall of the monastery’s refectory under a lavender sky and a setting sun. She quickly drew back, nearly blinded by her first glimpse of the sun after a week spent in perpetual twilight.

Curling her fingers around the edge of her little window, and resting her forehead against the cool stones inside, Moncha gasped when she felt the stones wiggle under her palm. 

“Oh thank you God,” she whispered, feeling a surge of hope rise in her chest. 

It wasn’t a lot. 

Such a small, tiny gap in the wall. 

But it was enough. 

—————————————————————————————————————

It took her until full dark for Moncha to widen the hole until it was big enough for her to crawl through, carefully feeling around the edges of her gap for the loosest stone, then gently wiggling it free, before lowering it as quietly as possible to the grass outside. 

The moon had risen by the time she crawled outside, dragging her wool blanket and clutching Hvitserk’s knife, with the first genuine grin since she’d gone fishing that horrible day with Siobhan lighting up her face. She thrust the knife into her belt and wrapped the blanket around herself like a cloak, then silently crept behind the line of stone priest’s huts and past the wreck of the desecrated church until she could peer out into the streets of occupied Dublin. Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of all the ships lying at anchor in the tidal pool, but she forced her feet to move all the same. 

“I’m coming little sister.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brigid was a goddess of pre-Christian Ireland. In addition to being associated with fertility, livestock (especially cattle and oxen), and the arrival of early spring, she is also the goddess of things perceived to be of relatively high dimensions, like tall flames, highlands, and hill-forts. She is also connected to concepts or ideas thought to be in some way “elevated,” like wisdom, intelligence, poetry, excellence, craftsmanship (especially blacksmithing), healing, druidic knowledge, and skill in warfare. Cormac’s Glossary calls her “the goddess that poets adored” and implies that she may have been a triple deity, with two sisters: Brigid the Healer and Brigid the Smith. Other sources I’ve read mention her having a “three-fold voice” that she uses when doing things like swearing oaths, making proclamations, or reciting poetry, and that when she was using her “three-fold voice” she was unable to tell a lie.


	5. Chapter 5

High above the earth, Heimdall, Michael, and Brigid watch as the dark-haired girl creeps through the ruined, torch-lit streets of Dublin. She avoids the fitful pools of light, swiftly darting from shadow to shadow, holding her blanket tight around her shoulders and clutching her stolen knife.

Despite the girl’s peril, Heimdall seems as though he is only partially interested in what is happening below, his eyes occasionally shifting away to gaze at something only he can see. Michael wears a look of cold detachment, his wings showing only the occasional flicker of movement, his bearing relaxed. Brigid’s earlier anger has faded into anxious worry, her bright green eyes unblinking as they follow the girl’s progress, her knuckles still white around her sword hilt.

Below them the girl makes steady progress, snaking her way through the back streets, working her way downhill towards the river where the slaves are being held, but she doesn’t see the group of three Northmen that will soon cross her path, catch her out in the open, and doom her. Brigid’s eyes grow wider and wider as the girl draws closer to the Northmen, panic etching itself over her face, until she steps forward to the edge of the Bifrost, screws up her face in concentration, and extends her hand down toward the world below. Michael frowns in disapproval as the goddess’ hand begins to shake and sweat breaks out on her forehead from the strain of the effort.

“You should save your strength, Brigid.”

The goddess shoots a glare back at him. “And you should hold your tongue  _Michael,_ ” she snarls out through gritted teeth before turning her attention back down to the world below them. Breathing heavily, she  _jerks_  her arm forward, as though  _shoving_  something away from her towards the streets of Dublin. A moment later, an otherworldly  _shriek_  rings out through the night, and the Northmen turn, casting about for the source of the frightening sound. They don’t see as the girl dashes across the moonlit road and disappears into a fog-shrouded alley.

Brigid smiles in triumph and steps back to join the others, breathing heavily, but Michael still wants to chide her.

“Was that really necessary?”

“Yes.” Brigid scoffs, affronted at the question.

Michael’s lips press into a disapproving line. “You know that is not permitted Brigid. You know that we are not to interfere. We are merely to watch and observe until…”

“ _No_.” Brigid cuts him off. “ _You_  are not to interfere.  _You_  are meant to only watch and observe.  _You_ may have to go crawling back to your to your greedy, damnable Father whenever he snaps his fingers Michael, but  _I_  do not recognize his authority and  _I_   ** _certainly_**  do not answer to him either. Neither does Heimdall.”

Michael turns to regard the Aesir standing next to him, eyebrows raised as though to ask if he agrees with what’s been said. Heimdall just blinks his golden eyes and settles his hands more comfortably on his sword belt.

“I am merely The Guardian,” he says, “Here to warn of the approach of Ragnarok, nothing more.”

Brigid gives an irritated shake of her head, her eyes going back the young woman. “How long, Heimdall?” she asks after a moment.

The Aesir turns to regard her, cocking his head to the side. “Until what, Cousin?”

“How long before Michael and  _his_   _Father_  come after what is yours? How long before Ask and Embla’s children no longer speak your name? Before you are thrown down and forgotten, just as I was?”

Michael seems unruffled by Brigid’s question, his face perfectly blank. Heimdall keeps silent as well, but frowns and looks back at his hall behind him and the mountains of Asgard further beyond. There’s an uncomfortable set to his shoulders as he turns back, and he avoids looking at Michael as the three of them continue to track the girl’s progress through the foggy Irish night.

———————————————————————————————————————————

It was uncomfortably eerie to Moncha to see just how much her home had changed since the Northmen’s arrival. She knew about the fire damage, how the flames had snaked through Dublin like a hungry serpent, devouring entire streets full of buildings only to leave others completely untouched, and she knew they they had desecrated the monastery and defiled the church, but what she hadn’t counted on was the silence. Dublin had aways been peaceful at night, quiet and calm, but there had still been the distant sound of a dog barking, or a mother up to comfort a crying child, or the monks going about their evening prayers in the monastery. Now, all of that was gone, the town she walked through an empty and dried out husk - the silence broken only by the Northmen’s far-off drunken shouts, the occasional gust of wind keening through the burned-out ruins, and the pounding of her own heart as she skittered from shadow to shadow.

Moncha was barely out of sight of the monastery before a dark, unfamiliar shape against the stars stopped her in her tracks and sent an chill down her spine. It was the unfinished hulk of a great building, its sharp beams thrusting up into the sky like the ancient, sun-bleached teeth of a half-buried beast. It all made sense now, the hammering and axe blows that she’d heard, the constant shouting from sunup to sundown - she’d thought they’d been doing some sort of repair work on their ships, getting them ready to move on to ravage some other land, but she’d been wrong. They were building a hall. The Northmen were staying. The heathen Ivar really did mean to make himself king.

The implications of the thought were too much to bear. She didn’t have time to consider them now. She had to keep moving, had to keep going and find Siobhan and her parents.

Her route took her past a forgotten sheep’s meadow, and there she paused again for a moment, a fist of ice clenching around her gut. The sheep were gone - either to feed the Northmen’s ravenous bellies or to appease their bloodthirsty gods, but it was the sight of the dark mounds where sheep used to wander that made her breath hitch and her feet root to the earth. Pyres. More than a dozen of them. Some of them were still smoldering, dotted with burning embers here and there. A shift in the wind brought a smell like roasting meat to Moncha’s nose, and she wasn’t able to tear her eyes away from the sight before she had to double over and be sick right there in the middle of the street. Wiping her mouth on the corner of the blanket, she found her feet again and hurried away before the light of the moon could show her any more.

Her best guess at where the captives might be held was near the river and the Northmen’s ships, so Moncha’s feet took her downhill towards the water. She said a quick prayer of thanks for the rising fog as she went, for while the moon’s light is bright enough to guide her way, it is also bright enough to reveal her to anyone who might recognize her. She hoped that with her blanket wrapped around her she could be mistaken for just another camp follower, one of the Northmen’s thralls they had brought with them to infest the town, but she was still grateful for every patch of fog she could cut through just the same.

Eventually, Moncha came to a wide thoroughfare she would have to cross in order to continue on her way. There was no one to be seen in either direction, she heard nothing beyond some far off drunken singing, so she carefully crept out of the shadows that surrounded an old inn and began to tiptoe across. Halfway there, the night split open with an unearthly scream - it was the keening of a war widow, the shriek of rending metal, and the howl of a storm in deep winter that echoed through the night and Moncha was off and sprinting as fast as she could go before its echoes had even died away. She hurled herself across the road and into a dark alley, she ran and ran, careless of direction, twisting and turning through the lanes of Dublin, fleeing the source of the scream.

When she’d calmed down enough to slow her pace and catch her breath, Moncha heard the sound of running water. She’d made it to the river. It was running high that night - the tide coming in and the added force of that spring’s rainstorms would make it impossible to cross anywhere but at a bridge. Her flight from the scream had brought her farther upriver than she’d intended, but she allowed herself to hope now. Her family  _had_  to be out there, somewhere near the ships Moncha could  _just_  make out beached on the shores of the Black Pool downriver. They had to be.

Moncha set a quick pace as she followed the lane running parallel to the river’s course, heading downriver towards the sea and the Northmen’s ships. The moon was high in the sky now - halfway through with its nightly dance, and she needed to find her family and be far gone by the time the sun cleared the horizon if they were going to have any hope of a clean escape.

She did not run. That would have drawn too much attention, marked her out as someone who needed to be caught. Instead she clutched her long, stolen knife to her chest, clutched the thick blanket around her shoulders, and cautiously skittered from shadow to shadow through the misty Irish night.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

Moncha’s hunch had been correct. On the shores of the Black Pool, in the shadow of the Northmen’s fleet, there was a series of mostly intact storehouses, and it was here that the Northmen were holding the people they had taken as slaves. Moncha hid herself in a dark alley for a long while, hanging back, listening to the muffled sobs of those locked inside, and watching the guards as they made their rounds. There were four of them, lean, feral looking men, not drunk like the others, but vigilant - too many for her to slip past no matter how careful she might be. She needed a distraction, something to draw them away, something to give her enough time to find her family and get away without anyone the wiser.

For a moment, she considered the ships, but they were too well guarded. She briefly thought of trying something a few streets away, but that would give her just a few moments to search before risking discovery, and she just couldn’t bring herself to do any more harm to her home. Casting about in frustration, the pale, moonlight rafters of the Northmen’s distant, half-finished hall caught her eye. That would do.

—————————————————————————————————————————————

“Curse it all! Burn, damn you!” Moncha angrily whispered, holding her stolen torch against a pile of split wooden roof tiles while doing her best to shield the flame with her blanket. The wood was green, and while it sent tendrils of black smoke up in her face, it refused to catch.

“Come on!  _Come on!_  Burn!”

Finally, a tiny ember came to life, nestled among the tiles. Moncha choked back a cry of triumph and knelt to coax the tiny flame to life. Within moments, Moncha had a handful of tiles bathed in tiny orange flames. She dropped her torch onto the rest of them and grabbed two tiles by their unburned edges.

Over and over Moncha came back for more burning tiles. The first two she tossed onto a pile of building scraps up against one wall, four of them she flung into the hall’s open rafters, two were shoved underneath the planks of the half-finished floor, she laid a few underneath a jumbled stack of roofing poles, and the rest she scattered around against the hall’s tall wooden columns. Her still-burning torch she left on the seat of a wide, roughly carved chair that looked like it was meant to one day be a throne. 

Then she ran. She ran two streets away, threw herself into the doorway of a burned-out house in sight of the hall, and then she waited, eyes straining for any hint of new light, ears pricked for a shout of alarm.

“ _Come on_ , burn!  _Please_  burn!” she whispered.

Finally, there it was - a tiny tongue of flame, licking up the side of a column, reaching up to brush against the rafters and then farther out into the sky.

Then Moncha saw another.

And another.

And another.

By the time she turned back towards the river and the Northmen’s captives half the street was bathed in golden light and cries of alarm were going up all over town.

_Thank you_ , Moncha thought, just for a moment casting her eyes up to the stars and whoever might still be listening, before increasing her pace back towards the river.

————————————————————————————————————————————

By the time Moncha had made it back down to the shores of the River Liffey she’d dodged five groups of Northmen heading up the hill towards the blaze and someone, somewhere had begun ringing a bell.

_That’s right_ , she thought as she ran,  _Call them all._

The four guards had left their post by the storehouses that were serving as makeshift barracks for their captives, but she could see movement among the ships beached far down the shore - more men headed into town to try and stop the fire from consuming what was left of Dublin. They were far enough away that she might not be seen if she hurried. And she had no other choice.

She still had the knife that she’d stolen from Hvitserk, it’s blade thickly forged and wickedly sharp. She jammed it into the lock barring the door of the first storehouse, levering it back and forth and praying that the noise of the river would mask any sounds she was making and the damn thing wouldn’t break. It was the lock gave first and the bent blade slipped from her fingers as Moncha threw open the door to a sea of pale, frightened faces.

For a moment, no one moved. Until Moncha stepped to the side and motioned to the empty road behind her.

“Well?” she whispered. “ _Go_.”

The captives broke as one, surging forward towards the door in a half panicked mob, a few of them murmuring a “Thank you” or a “Bless you” as they passed her before darting away into the night. Moncha hardly payed them any mind - none of them were Siobhan. None of them were her mother Orla, or her father Davin. A few of the people who passed her were familiar faces, people she’d seen around town and in the market, but her family was nowhere to be seen. One of the last women to make it out of the door caught her attention though.

“ _Etain_?” Moncha said, and the woman stopped, turning to look at her through her good eye - the entire left side of her face was so bruised and swollen that her eye had completely swelled shut.

“Moncha?” she said, her voice incredulous. She winced when she forgot herself and her injuries made it too painful to smile, but she gripped Moncha’s shoulders with steady hands and her one good eye shone brightly in the moonlight. “What are you doing here?”

“Finding my family - have you seen them? Siobhan and my parents?”

“Siobhan is there, I saw them put her in that one,” Etain gestured towards the storehouse at the end of the lane, the one closest to the ships, “but your parents…..” her voice trailed off and Moncha felt her knees go weak as the bottom dropped out of her stomach.

“Oh,” she said, struggling to stand. She suddenly felt very dizzy.

“I’m so sorry child,” Etain whispered, swiping a thumb across her cheek. Moncha didn’t even know she was crying.

“The raid?” she asked.

“Yes. Your father died defending your mother. One of the young lads told me.”

Moncha felt herself nodding slowly. “Good. They’re together then. That’s good. It’s how they would have wanted it.”

An angry shout rang out and the two women sprang apart. It was Hvitserk. He must have been at the ships and been coming into town to help fight the fire, and he’d seen them standing there together in the middle of the road, plain as day.

“ _You_.” He said, the word dripping with venom, hazel eyes burning into hers.

“Go,” Moncha whispered to Etain, shoving the older woman away down the road as she turned and sprinted away in the opposite direction. She didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She knew that Hvitserk would be after her, that the sting of her betrayal would have him right on her heels, the wolf after the fleeing deer, so she dropped her stolen blanket and left her stolen knife behind and put everything she had into more speed.

But it wasn’t enough.

She only made it two blocks before Hvitserk caught her and tackled her to the ground.

————————————————————————————————————————————

It was the bell ringing that startled Ivar out of sleep - that and the shouting. The bell sounded like it was coming from directly over his head, and the angry shouts were all going past his room in the Christian’s monastery and headed in the same direction, but he couldn’t make out any words over the din of the damned bell.

“What is it?” he shouted throwing off his blanket and groaning as he sat up. “What is happening? Are we under attack?” No one answered, and Ivar cursed as he reached for his leg braces, throwing them on over his linen trousers and cursing the precious minutes it took his fumbling fingers to do up all the buckles. Finally finished, he grabbed his crutch and his axe, hauled himself upright with the help of the Christian abbot’s fine woolen wall hanging next to the bed, and hobbled his way over to the door.

Throwing it open, Ivar was startled to find the hall outside completely empty, not a sound to be heard except for the continuous ringing of the bell.

“Ubbe!” he shouted. “Hvitserk! What is happening?!”

He opened the door that let out next to the church, and stopped when he saw the flames, not willing to believe his eyes. The dancing firelight revealed the form of a red-haired warrior hurrying across the courtyard to help fight the blaze.

“You there!” he roared and the warrior stopped.

“Yes Ivar?”

“What is happening? Is it an attack?”

“No Ivar, we think it to be an accident. There’s been no attack.”

Something suddenly clicked in Ivar’s find.

“Check the slaves,” he ordered.

“But Ivar -”

“ _Check the slaves!”_ he roared. “It’s a distraction you idiot! Check the slaves for any trying to escape then find my brothers and bring them to me in the church.”

The warrior nodded and began to go but Ivar called after her.

“And tell whoever it is to stop ringing that fucking bell!”

————————————————————————————————————————————

Ivar was in the church, sitting on top of the high altar when they brought her to him, the girl he’d been keeping as his personal slave. Her cheek was sporting the beginnings of what looked like a fresh bruise, her hair was a mess, and there were bloody scratches on her knees and forearms, but she stood before him in Hvitserk’s hold and did not tremble. She was a brave thing - he had to give her that.

“Lonely Woman.”

Moncha sneered back at him. “Heathen,” she muttered through gritted teeth, then winced when Hvitserk twisted her arm farther behind her back.

“You burned my hall.”

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

Ivar gave her a cold smile, just a quick flash of teeth before he turned to Ubbe standing in the corner.

“What did she do?”

Ubbe turned his attention from glaring at Hvitserk to glaring at Ivar.

“Burned down the hall and all the buildings around it before we could put the fire out.  _Hvitserk_  says she also managed to break the lock on one of the slave barracks and let all the captives go free.”

“How many got away?”

“Thirty-two.”

“How many have we recaptured?”

Ubbe grimaced. “Five.”

“So,” Ivar said, turning his attention back to Moncha and Hvitserk. “Twenty-seven people running away to bring word to my enemies that we are here, before we’ve even finished fortifying our foothold. Twenty-seven people, each able to  _ruin everything._ How did she even get out?” he asked Hvitserk.

His older brother went red and behind him Ubbe scoffed a laugh while he searched for the words, but Ivar cut him off.

“Wait! Let me guess,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You thought with your cock instead of your head like you always do. You saw a pretty girl who maybe smiled at you, maybe let you fuck her once or twice, and you forgot to  _think_. So she used that to trick you and  _that_  is how she escaped.”

“Ivar -” Hvitserk tried to cut in.

“Oh  _shut up_. You were tricked by a woman and we all know it and just look at what happened.” Ivar gestured towards the dim firelight still coming in through the broken windows, then waved a dismissive hand at Hvitserk and Moncha. “Take her away. Lock her back in her cell. And say your goodbyes while you’re at it, because I promise that you  _won’t_  be seeing her again.”

“Fine.” Hvitserk snarled, beginning to drag Moncha out of the church.

Ivar wasn’t done though.

“Ubbe,” he said. “Go to the slave barracks. Find me a young girl, with pale hair - the one we saw her with on the day of the raid. Bring her to me.”

Moncha’s eyes went wide when she heard the order, and while before she’d been grudgingly acceptant, defiant even, now she began to struggle.

“Wait!” she screamed. “No, please! Don’t hurt her! She’s just a child!” Moncha broke free of Hvitserk’s hold but instead of running away, she ran towards Ivar and threw herself at his feet.

“Please don’t hurt my sister!” she begged, clinging to his legs. “I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I’ll do whatever you want - I swear it! Just don’t hurt Siobhan! Please!”

“Get her off!” Ivar roared as Moncha continued to plead with him. “Get her off!” Hvitserk finally succeeded in prying Moncha off of him, and dragged her away, but her frightened shrieks and desperate cries lingered in the air behind her long after they’d gone.

Ivar looked around. Ubbe looked uncomfortable. So his other warriors.

“Ubbe,” Ivar said, breaking the silence. “Bring me the child.”

His brother stared back at him for a long moment, brow furrowed, before he shook his head.

“No.”

“ _What_?”

“I said ‘no.’ I’ll not help you kill a child Ivar. Not just to satisfy your spite.”

“Bring me the child Ubbe.” Ivar said again, a note of steel creeping in to his voice. “The girl must be taught a lesson.”

Ubbe sighed and shook his head. “Maybe, Ivar…..maybe. But I’ll not help you do it.” He pushed away from his spot leaning against the wall, gave Ivar a disappointed smile, and walked out. About half of the other warriors in the room followed him.

Ivar sneered as he watched them all go. Tamping down his anger, he pointed with his axe at one of the remaining warriors - a tall man with blonde hair and dark tattoos curling up both of his forearms.

“You,” Ivar said through gritted teeth. “Go to the slave barracks. Find me a young child there. A girl. About four years old. Pale hair - almost white. Bring her to me.”

The warrior looked like he might refuse, like maybe Ivar really was asking too much, but eventually he squared his shoulders and nodded.

“Yes Ivar.”

————————————————————————————————————————————

It didn’t take long for the warrior to return with the child, less than an hour, but it was late and it had been a long night, so by the time he walked in carrying the little girl the sky to the east was beginning to lighten.

She wasn’t fighting this time, in fact she seemed downright sleepy as the warrior carried her in and set her down in front of Ivar’s perch on the high altar.

“Are you Siobhan?” Ivar asked her, trying to make his voice sound sweet and kind.

The little girl rubbed her eyes with a grimy fist and nodded.

“And Moncha is your sister?” Ivar continued.

The little girl seemed to perk up a bit. “Mmm-hmm…” she mumbled, still rubbing her eyes. “Where is Moncha? I want Mama and Dada and Moncha….” she whined.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get to see them very soon,” Ivar lied, trying to soothe her. “Just come up here with me for a moment, and tell me about your Mama and Dada so I can help you find them, and then we’ll go get Moncha, alright?”

When the little girl nodded, Ivar took her by the arm and pulled her up to sit beside him on the altar with his left hand, while behind his back his right hand drew his knife.

————————————————————————————————————————————

He gave her a day to think about it. An entire day to do nothing but wallow and worry. She received no food, no water, and  _no visitors_  - Ivar made sure of it. When Moncha was brought to him the next evening, Ivar was somewhat disappointed to see that she looked like a husk of her former self, like 24 hours was all it took for all of the fight to drain out of her.

He was back up on the altar when she was brought before him, idly playing with a handful of pale silken threads.

“Well….…is she dead?” Moncha barked out.

_Maybe not out of fight after all,_  Ivar thought.

“No.” he replied.

Moncha’s eyes went wide. “ _What_?” she gasped.

In response, Ivar held up the silken threads he’d been idly tying in knots. Not silk threads at all, like Moncha had thought. It was human hair. A pale blond. Almost white.

Moncha sobbed and collapsed to her knees in from on him when she realized what he’d done, grabbing his legs in her hands and letting her tears stream down onto his boots. Ivar grimaced in distaste and reached down to grab her chin, prying her face up and forcing her to look him directly in the eye.

“If you disobey me again,” he said, speaking slowly and clearly, “I will kill her. If you try to escape again, I will kill her. If you defy me in any way, I will kill her. Do you understand?”

Moncha gulped and nodded, still holding his gaze. Ivar hoped that she couldn’t see the thought that lingered in his mind, lurking behind his eyes.

_Please don’t make me._


End file.
